


He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

by sarahenany



Category: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 14:52:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18527302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany
Summary: There's no room for machismo in the Drift.(Or, Snot/Fang's first drift together, a fanfic of TamerLorika's Pacific Rim AU, and read at your own frikkin' risk for shameless fluff.)





	He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fortune Favors the Brave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5992246) by [TamerLorika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TamerLorika/pseuds/TamerLorika). 



“You don’t need to worry about us.”

Fishlegs, Meatlug, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, and Barf-and-Belch are all clustered around the pod. Snotlout is fitting comfortably into the human-size chair. His big reptilian partner, on the other hand, is twisted around like a pretzel in the Drift apparatus, the various pieces of equipment around Hookfang’s head looking like a can opener gone wrong, or perhaps some space gear out of a movie.

“We’re not _worried,”_ Fishlegs says, petulant as ever. “Just concerned.”

“Yeah, yeah. Girls get concerned.” Snotlout feels a twinge of guilt speaking like his younger self would have, but damn it, he needs to feel _confident!_ “Warriors don’t get concerned. And we’re warriors. Right, Hooky?”

_Hookfang, warrior. Snotlout, wannabe-warrior._

“Shut up,” Snotlout says without heat. His eyes flicker to his friends, watching wide-eyed. Hiccup and Toothless are off doing Gods only know what after their own drift, and Astrid and Stormfly, from what Hookfang says, are probably sulking somewhere. “Let a _real_ pair of warriors show you how it’s done!”

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Fishlegs says, with a soft smile. “Both of you.”

“We’re not _nervous!_ You and your girl-partner get nervous! Hookfang and I don’t get nervous!”

 _Hookfang safe,_ purrs Meatlug reassuringly. _Night Fury and Nadder very different. Both okay. Scientists here good-calibrate instruments._

That has Snotlout glancing over to his partner. His pupils are slitted, but he’s rumbling _defiance_ and _courage._ Of course Hookfang doesn’t get nervous, but maybe he needs some moral support. Snotlout looks over at the closest tech. “I want an assurance that this thing is safe!” he barks. “I am _not_ breaking in a new partner after this!”

“It’s been tested on two dragons already. We’re as confident as we can be that it’ll be fine,” comes the response, but what Snotlout's listening for is Hookfang’s response, not the tech’s.

And there it is - he’s rewarded with a dismissive draconic huff. _Snotlout-concern touching._ They don’t need to be mentally linked for Hookfang’s snark to come through. _Hookfang be-fine. Not-worry Snotlout fragile-human-mind._

“My mind is not fragile,” Snotlout retorts.

_Human brain, two kilos. Dragon brain, two hundred._

“That’s two hundred more things that can go _wrong._ Man, you really _do_ have a big head!”

_“Sequence: Initiating.”_

Snotlout’s heart thunders in his chest. He suddenly, illogically, wishes he were touching Hookfang somehow.

“Ten. Nine.”

“I’m not scared,” Snotlout announces loudly to the walls of the pod.

 _Not-scared,_ Hookfang rumbles. That’s it. That’s more like it! That’s how warriors should go into the Drift!

“...two. One.”

* * *

Soft.

It’s the first thing he feels: Soft grass, soft press of hatchling-bodies, soft purring. _Mother. Sister. Clutch._

Snotlout tumbles into his Hookfang’s consciousness as naturally as a fledgling alighting from its nest onto the grass.

He’s chasing the bunny. He attended the briefings, he’s not an idiot, despite what anyone else may think. He _knows_ he’s chasing the bunny or whatever they called it, and it’s supposed to be wrong and distracting, but what do they know anyway? This is _Hookfang’s nest._ Hookfang’s never told him about his childhood. You bet your _ass_ he’s not budging.

Everything’s blurred and bright. He realizes he’s seeing through hatchling-eyes. Something warm nuzzles him, _sister,_ and he rolls over, play-fighting and kicking in the grass.

At a distance, he sees a smiling human figure watching. It has his face, his smile. _Wait! What?_

Snotlout looks down at himself. He sees a little round belly and little Nightmare claws. “How about that,” he says, unruffled in the least. He’s Hookfang and Hookfang is him? No, he’s - can he be? So deep in Hookfang’s head that he’s living his memories? Huh. “Told you we were compatible,” he preens smugly to no-one.

He flaps his wings, joy surging through him at being little and loved and alive. He can’t remember feeling this happy since, _not until the little human fledgling perched on his shoulders and--_

Wait, what? Oh. Right. Hookfang’s memories.

He’s batted away from the warmth of the other nestlings, and he whines in alarm. That earns him a growl. “Be a warrior. Whiny weaklings are unfit to be dragons,” says a Nightmare, a bright orange and black Titan-Wing. _Father_ echoes in Snotlout’s head even as _sire_ echoes in Hookfang’s. But he’s a dragon and Hookfang’s _him,_ and he’s _not sure what’s real anymore as his sire chivvies him out of the soft playfulness of the clutch and drags him up to a mountain peak to keep watch._

For hours. And hours. Time drags and yet flies by, amd much later, exhausted, his young eyes droop shut only to be forced awake with a jolt. “Be a warrior!” the sire says, along with something about a disgrace to the honor of Nightmares… _He can’t listen, he’s too tired, and he’s jerked awake again and again, until his eyes are burning and his head is throbbing from lack of sleep…_ He _whines to his sire but he’s berated mercilessly, kept awake by growls and roars and he’s forced to stay awake and awake and awake and his eyes burn and he’s so tired and--_

There’s a flare of rage and Snotlout’s in his own body again. He rushes for the little nestling and scoops him up in his arms. Baby Hookfang’s small and warm as he burrows into his hold, and Snotlout clutches him close, holding and rocking and comforting, even as the lush greenery swirls and morphs into a human house.

It’s Snotlout’s own home, walls and wood and stone. Snotlout can feel Hookfang’s shock; he’s bewildered himself, blinking hard in this mind-space, taking a moment to get oriented.

“Disgrace to the honor of Jorgensons! Ye must learn to be a warrior!” Along with the loud voice of _Snotlout-sire,_ there are cracking sounds explosive in the air and a little kid facing the wall, getting the belt, palms flat against the wood. He looks a little like Gustav Larsen, but there’s no reason Spitelout Jorgenson would be giving Gustav a punishme--

The belt lands across the human child’s back and the flinch is _Hookfang’s_ and Snotlout yells out loud, _“No!”_ No, he won’t allow it! No-one lays a finger on his partner, not even his dad. _He’s_ the one who belongs there, he’s used to the occasional whipping, it’s not even that bad, but it’s okay for _him,_ not for _Hookfang!_

Snotlout pushes forward, trying to shoulder the little kid who’s his partner out of the way. Only-- drat! Snotlout doesn’t _have_ shoulders - Hookfang’s taken on _his_ form so he, Snotlout, has taken on the form of a dragon. Drat, drat, _drat._  It’s okay to dismiss it when it’s _him,_ to say he’s a warrior or it doesn’t hurt or whatever, but… not when it’s Hookfang, he can’t say that when it’s Hookfang being - oh hell, being beaten, hard, explosive blows that claw into fragile human flesh and bone. Tears spring to Snotlout’s eyes as he watches his partner hurting, and it’s all in his head so he can’t _move,_ it’s all slow, swimming in frozen water, his body heavy and unwieldy, and he’s hit like a sledgehammer by the sheer shock and grief in Hookfang as he experiences what Snotlout went through. And _drat drat drat_ he can’t _deny_ it was that bad, not when it’s his _partner_ in his place! Crap. Chasing the bunny isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Snotlout watches his younger face twist and start to cry, and he yells to reassure Hookfang, “It wasn’t that bad!” even as his father snaps, “Stop that sniveling or I’ll _give_ you something to cry about!” and something snaps and he lunges forward, and suddenly he’s his smaller self again, his partner wrapping him in gentle wings and licking the welts on his back and he’s putting his arms around Hookfang and reassuring him and---

The scene changes, darkens. _Humans. Attack. Panic. Terror._ Scared and desperate, the fledglings look up at the sky, clouded with human shooting-things, hordes and hordes of humans pouring onto the shore. _Hide, hide!_

The little ones are herded into a hollow in the earth, watching through tufts of grass as black shadows of hunters overrun their territory. Humans, hundreds, shouts and noise and bursts of sound and yelling. Dragons everywhere being captured…

 _No! No! Mother--_ But there’s nothing the fledglings can do. Snotlout watches through baby Hookfang’s eyes, heartstrings stretched to breaking. Mother, father, cowed into submission by a mighty human in a cloak who screams at them like an Alpha.

Then, gone. No more Mother. No more Father.

 _Alone. Afraid._ That same grass too big, too cold, no sheltering wings. Clutchmates, hungry. _No time for grief. Must hunt. Be a warrior! Be responsible!_

 _Hunt. Feed._ He brings fish, as much as he can, diving and coming up often empty. But Always-Eating is now Always-Hungry, the efforts of one fledgling to feed her not enough _not enough,_ and she weakens and her bright yellow eyes close in sleep and never open again...

Snotlout cringes under the grief that follows. “Oh, Hooky,” he whispers desperately. His favorite sister, Plays-With-Birds, is torn to pieces by a Cavern Crasher, her blue eyes haunting his - Hookfang’s - _his_ \- soul. Then Happy Face, he _loved_ Happy Face, snatched up by a predator with wings far, far bigger than a fledgling’s, even a fledgling Nightmare’s: heart tattered into shreds of grief and misery, Snotlout watches as predators devour the warm little nestmates, one after the other, until there’s only Hookfang left.

He looks over to the human form who’s Hookfang and sees he’s crying. It breaks his heart - reptiles shouldn’t cry - no no no _no_ he wants _out--_

Snotlout pushes toward Hookfang desperately, needing to _get to him--_

\--and he does.

Stale air. Dank cell. Marked for death. Weeks in captivity, darkness. Aching, yearning to see the sun. Aching with the knowledge of being marked for death.

Snotlout shakes his head. This is too much, too much pain, he can’t, he _can’t--_

Sunlight. Stench of spectators. Yells. Arena. Soft, sweet human, not a warrior: all, all loving-kindness. Ready to die without a weapon. A fight, and then--

Another human. Another essence. Less loving-kindness and more bitter-fight. Like _him_. He knows him without knowing him. _This world is cruel. Err and you die. Be a warrior._

The human picks up a weapon, drops it.

_Don’t open like a flower, not like that tiny one._

Five thousand pounds of flaming muscle. Could crush him with one claw.

_Don’t trust._

Nostrils flaring, opening and closing.

_They'll kill you first chance they get._

Snotlout doesn’t know which is him and which is Hookfang anymore.

_Protect your heart._

Their eyes meet.

_Blue eyes. Like Plays-With-Birds'._

The tiny hand reaches out, clenching and unclenching, guided by the soft one.

_Be strong._

Skin meets scale.

_Show no softness._

Both of them gasp, laugh incredulously, tremble.

...something changes.

They’re no longer in the arena. They’re no longer in the grass of Hookfang’s childhood or the house where Snotlout grew up. He stands in a soft, formless limbo. They’re not warriors here, not human, not dragon; only _us._

In the periphery of his hearing, he can hear the beep of the machines, the whisper of the techs and the oddly loud scratching of pens across clipboards. Facing him stands a humanoid form, dark orange with black swirls that look like tattoos. He meets the androgynous person's bright yellow eyes and _knows_ who it is.

Somehow, in a vague corner of his mind, Snotlout knows Hookfang is seeing him as a draconic figure, and is aware that Snotlout’s seeing _him_ as a human. Nothing is secret here. Nothing is hidden. He lets Hookfang reach out to him, and stands quite still as Hookfang flats a palm against his chest, over his (human? dragon?) heart.

His chest _fills,_ fills to bursting, and his breath catches and tears spring to his eyes. It’s heat, but not heat; cold but not cold; electric but not electric. He can feel the same happening to Hookfang, and reptiles can’t cry but this human form can. He raises his own hand, seeing how Hookfang perceives it as a dragon gesture, and flats it against his partner’s beating heart.

The conduit’s complete. He can feel Hookfang shudder: he shudders too. Their palms are welded to each other’s chests, and he can almost see, but definitely feel, what seems like years’ worth of armor-plate disengaging and falling away. _Be a man. Don’t cry. Stop sniveling. Quit your whining. Unworthy to be a warrior. Toughen up. Be like your old man. Show no weakness. Protect your heart. Never open up. Never trust._

But beneath them burns a fierce whisper: _Give me your weakness. Take my strength. All of it, here, in the circle of love and trust. Rest in my arms. Be safe in my heart. Cry on my shoulder. Give it all to me, give me your vulnerability here, here, in my heart._ He doesn’t know who it’s coming from, him or Hookfang. It sounds like… maybe both of them.

He leans into the touch, bringing his other arm up to lock elbows with Hookfang’s sinewy, muscular arm in the crossed-wrists salute of brothers or sisters of the sword.

And if he thought the conduit was complete _before_ then holy _shit_ he knew _nothing._

His chest is light as a feather, like there was a stone weighing him down and it’s been lifted off. He can feel the same wondering lightness in Hookfang as he, Snotlout, carries his partner’s own burden aloft. It weighs nothing, because lifting a weight off his partner’s heart? That’s not heavy. That’s joy.

Their locked arms give him strength, give them strength for _both of us;_ he can feel the surge of power from their joined grip in _both_ their veins, lifting them, like flying but _more,_ making them both stronger, invincible. _I’ve got you_ his blood sings, hearing in his partner an answering song.

“Drift terminating in 10....9...”

He’s got the device ripped off and has flung himself at Hookfang’s stomach before the echo of “Drift terminated” has died out. He’s swept up in a pair of wings and - dammit, Hookfang’s _shaking._

“I know, big boy,” Snotlout whispers. “I know, I know...” His hands scramble for purchase over scales, settling for wrapping around Hookfang’s shoulders at the base of his neck. He can feel Hookfang’s wings clutching him, pulling him as close as he can get, claws wrapping around his shoulders as best they can.

They cling to each other, not letting go. “I didn’t know…” Snotlout whispers. “I didn’t know. I--I always--I…”

“Shh,” Hookfang grunts, and Snotlout complies.

There’s no comment from the viewing window, other than the Marshal saying something about “Rangers,” which he ignores. They’re not Rangers, not just now. They’re-- they’re-- Snotlout clings harder, feeling wings wrap around him tighter, and feels _no_ shame at embracing in public like a pair of saps. He lifts his hand to Hookfang’s face, needing to touch, to be close. “I… Hookfang, I…”

 _Yes._ Hookfang’s voice is a purr. _Hookfang, too. Not-know, before. Not… not like this._

“Hush, big boy. Easy.” It’s Snotlout’s turn to soothe, petting everywhere he can touch. The techs are looking impatient for them to vacate the pod, but they’re not going anywhere till they’re good and ready. “We didn’t know. Before.” It’s hard to string words together. “Not really. Like. I always knew. But not like this.”

Hookfang rumbles agreement. _Not like this._

Snotlout’s hands are cupping Hookfang’s eye-bulbs. “Where…” He feels a shiver of apprehension. “Where do we go from here?”

Hookfang makes sure to start up a deep, intimate purr. Then he tilts his head. _Lunch?_

Snotlout bursts out laughing. “Yeah, Hooky. Lunch sounds good.” But then he tightens his hands around his partner’s face. He feels like if he lets go, he’ll be losing something he didn’t know was his to lose. “But uh--together?”

Hookfang chomps him the way he hasn’t done since their _very_ early days, flickers of possessiveness and desperation trailing down Snotlout’s nerves in what’s left of the Drift. _Together. For lunch. And dinner. And breakfast. And then more lunch and more dinner. Not-let Snotlout go for a week. Maybe a month. Maybe a year._

Warmth spills down Snotlout’s insides, and it feels like relief. “Gonna hold you to that, big boy.”

They make them go to a debriefing before lunch, but the way the techs are unnerved by the shit-eating grins on both their faces is a great consolation to Snotlout.


End file.
